I bake a lot. The thick, chocolaty taste of my popular chocolate chip cookies has a reputation that proceeds itself. Because I frequently offer a plate of cookies as a thank you to other moms, or a gift for someone's birthday, or as a dessert to a party we attend, I bake piles of cookies at a time and store them in gallon size Ziploc bags in my freezer. My kids drool over my infamous treats. They rush into the kitchen once they have detected warm cookies and beg me to allow them to dive in to the stacks on the cooling racks. Because of the many uses of my baked goods and the energy involved in whipping up a perfect batch, I prefer not to watch my inventory dwindle. I hoard my cookies and reserve them for the many occasions when they are in demand. I refuse to show up to someone's house empty handed, and I'm often too pressed for time to bake when a need arises. I dislike baking for a function at the last minute or finding myself without an available plate on hand. If the kids are lucky, I will distribute one cookie to each of them prior to assigning them to freezer storage. I typically hand select those that don't meet my high standards. Once I give the nod of approval, these less than perfect cookies are inhaled in moments.
Because of my recent Celiac disease diagnosis, I can no longer sample my own cookies. Bummer. A few weeks after the advent of my gluten free status, I struggled to recall if I had added salt to my cookie batter. Hoping to avoid 'tossing my cookies' for bad flavoring, I asked Coach to sample the batter. His eager to help attitude seemed more focused on swallowing the typically off-limits food than really studying the possible missed ingredient.
can't drive for another few days (please see my 'breakfast club', 'tickets' and 'process' posts to read up on my driving issues), I depend on my private, pay-back
cookie stash to show my gratitude to my volunteer chauffeurs. Also, I
realized I had yet to mail a care package to my five
college age nephews this school year. Between my mass college cookie
mailing and my thanks-for-the-ride gifts, I knew my freezer inventory
would be depleted this
baked. It was a good batch. Chunky. Chocolate chips rested on the
tall doughy peaks invitingly. I allowed the kids to eat one token cookie. I then loaded the majority of this yummy batch into a couple of bags,
labeled each bag with the date by sharpie, and rearranged the crowded freezer shelves to accommodate the additional inventory. Of course nothing in our house it safe. Just the other day I discovered that one of my little darlings had snacked on my left over gluten free pizza even though the Ziploc bag was labeled 'Mommy.' If I can't enjoy my own cookies, can I at least be allowed some gross left over pizza?
school on Thursday, Brendan and Maeve dove for the same Gogurt pouch in
the fridge. It wasn't pretty. You would think that there were no
other edible snacks available in the entire house. The yogurt dispute
ended with me separating them. I awarded Curly with the squeezable tube
because I believe Reggie had overpowered her initial grab. I feared that the
packaging would pop open from the pressure of their little fists. I wanted to avoid artificially colored blue yogurt spilling all over my recently washed
kitchen floor. Brendan sulked and refused to eat the non-blue Gogurt
that was still available. Unreal. He had already opened it. I informed
him that he needed to eat it. No other snacks would be available to
him until he did.
Over the next few minutes I occupied myself
with more pressing issues than favorite yogurt flavors. I was coming
down the stairs when I heard the first floor bathroom door close and
lock. Curly was with me and the other kids weren't home from school
yet. I demanded that Reg open the door. Quickly! I knew something was a
miss when he hesitated to open it. This was not a bathroom related
issue. His guilty expression was hard to ignore when the door slowly opened. He shrugged at me. I glanced around. I anticipated unwanted Gogurt being
flushed down the toilet. That's when I saw it.
awkwardly between the toilet and the wall was a frozen product of my
recent baking marathon. Those that have tasted my cookies would
undoubtedly be outraged that one of my cookies had spent time on the
bathroom floor. Behind the toilet. This was an act of treason. The lengths that my
offspring will go to in order to secure food contraband reached a new
Reggie sensed my rage as my eyes widened and my
jaw clenched. Unleashing my frustration verbally grabbed his
attention - as if my facial expression had confused him into thinking I was proud of his cunning behavior. I slammed the cookie down on
the kitchen counter as Reggie wisely retreated to his room. I decided
to send a message to Reggie's fellow 'what's-mommy's-is-ours' mentality
followers. Stuffing the compromised cookie in a sandwich bag, I labeled
it 'Reggie's toilet cookie.' I informed him that the next time I
offered a fresh baked, albeit slightly less than perfect cookie to his
siblings, he would eat his toilet cookie. Before the cookie had been
bagged and labeled, a few of the kids invaded the kitchen after school. Each claimed
dibs on the abandoned treat. Once I informed them of the cookie's recent
whereabouts, they backed away while moaning loudly.
Perhaps I should offer
the kids my homemade cookies more often, or be sure to clean behind the
toilet more regularly. I'm not convinced that Reg learned his lesson. Despite the possible germ
infestation this 10 year old still begged me for permission to ingest his confiscated loot. I'm
not kidding. These are some very good cookies. I'm just not sure they are that good.